


Malfoy Sensibilities II

by PaolaAdara



Series: Malfoy Sensibilities [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, Other, Possibly Pre-Slash, Sequel, Sequel to Malfoy Sensibilities, hpdm - Freeform, slight crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:45:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaolaAdara/pseuds/PaolaAdara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because the second time around is so much sweeter. Kind of. And really, does Harry bloody Potter need to be so fit that he causes trouble in Draco's overrated dragonhide trousers? Seriously! Sequel to Malfoy Sensibilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malfoy Sensibilities II

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Malfoy Sensibilities II_ is based on characters and situations that belong to J.K. Rowling; publishers that include, but may not be limited to, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Publishing, and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros. No money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
> 
> Considerations: Similarities to other stories/events/passages and people, dead or alive, are purely coincidental unless otherwise cited. Beliefs and points of view found in the story do not necessarily reflect those of the author’s.
> 
> Warning: Crack!fic, sort of, I guess, maybe. Slash, too. You have been warned.

“Potter!” Draco calls out — not holler, God no, his voice just naturally carries, and liltingly beautifully so, if he says so himself — as he strides purposely towards the centre of the Gryffindor common room, and doesn’t he _just_ love that gobsmacked expression on everyone’s faces upon seeing him!

He just about preens at their horrified expressions when they register the _other_ meaning of his follow-through: “I am in need of your _services_ at once!” Seriously, these goody Gryffindors aren’t very goody at all. They’re quite of a dirty mind — not that he doesn’t enjoy these little conclusions they draw.

“Bloody hell, Malfoy, how’d you get inside _again_?” Weasley demands — _hollering_ because for someone so undeniably and painfully ill-bred as him, hollering seems to be just right up his alley, and _by gods,_ if Hogwarts would just take suggestions from its students, the teaching staff would realize how fabulously right he is that everyone who is not Draco Malfoy is in terrible — nay _, dire_ — need of finishing school.

Except for Potter, of course, because the sex that oozes out of him more than makes up for his lack of social breeding. Besides, freeing the Boy-Who-Stars-In-Everyone’s-Wank-Fantasy from a class that he himself would be excused from means free time for just the _two of them_ , and _oh my lord_ can he just think of ways they can spend _that_ free time! Just the thought of Potter and him alone in the Great Hall because everyone else is required to attend finishing courses is somehow _erotic_ , even if all they do is sit at different tables and do their own business.

It’s the vibes, he’s sure of it! Sitting away from each other and doing nothing is nothing sexy, but if the other party is Harry Sex-On-Legs Potter, _God_ , it’s simply titillating! It’s like the apple from the forbidden tree — tempting.

He almost sighs at himself. He needs to shag badly — or get himself shagged very thoroughly, whichever comes first — or he’d be making a mess in his trousers just at the sight of Potter’s hands, which are incredibly sexy, _mind you_ — _and big, and gloriously manly, and God, how those must feel on my skin_ — but that’s beside the point.

He turns towards Forever-Sidekick and arches one of his regal eyebrows — my, he’s practically royal just by the strength of his eyebrows’ regality alone! “Are you implying that I have committed something underhanded just to get the password to this common room of yours? Which, I must say, is not really living up to my expectations.”

He’s only been inside Gryffindor Tower twice after he’s deigned to accept Potter’s offer of friendship, and he isn’t duly impressed, no, even today, when there’s a great fire roaring in the hearth. Well, he supposes he should give points for the warmth and cosiness, but come on, just because they’re bloody red-and-gold lions doesn’t mean they _have_ to soak every piece of furniture in red and gold! _Honestly_ , that is so overkill, it’s not even funny. And the threadbare, mumsy look is so last season. It’s too, _ugh_ , pleb! So unlike the Slytherin common room, which is all about smooth lines, and fine arches, and top grain leather — heavenly, expensive leather — and elegant dark wood, and polished teak, and tasteful, muted colours.

Okay, so his common room is a little cold and has very inimical vibes, but he reckons that’s just because they’re in the dungeons, nothing personal.

“Well, yeah,” Weasel flatly replies.

Okay, so he got that one right. Snaps for Ronald Sodding Weasley.

“Slytherin is as Slytherin does, love bunny. We don’t all wear your colour of behaviour, I’m afraid. Red _simply_ isn’t my colour, it makes my skin appear unattractively pallid.” Unless, of course, Potter is the new red, in which case he’ll _gladly_ wear Potter, er — red, he means, he’ll gladly wear red.

“Hermione, tell me again, why aren’t we supposed to hate this git?”

There’s a surprise. He was sure he’d get vilified to his deepest — but nonetheless extremely aphrodisiacal — core and what does the honourable sidekick to Sex-On-Legs do instead? Nothing!

Cue dramatic, albeit internal, gasp.

Maybe Potter really wasn’t kidding when he said his two lapdogs don’t hate him anymore. It still knocks him for six to actually see that they don’t hate him though, even if they still very ostensibly dislike his guts, which he can’t comprehend all too well because he’s just being honest. _Honestly_. He’s saintly like that. Kind of. Well, really, he’s more on the sinful side, like chocolate. He’s heard Potterloves chocolate, so by _gods_ , the boy must adore him then! He’s so orgasmically chocolate-y, like sex, except not the dark kind because that’s Potter — Potter’s the dark chocolate to his milk. Oh good lord, he hates his dirty mind, except he doesn’t really. Potter simply _just_ inspires all those images!

Hermi-what’s-her-face only shakes her head, eyes him quite balefully — and actually manages to unsettle him, _gee_ , that violence streak is really just so near the surface, _ugh_ , so not attractive — then returns to her homework, which he’s sure isn’t quite half as interesting as him. Leave it to the Gryffindors to choose boring over sinfully lust-worthy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Weaslette — _Weaslette_ , because she’s cute as a button like that — descending the stairs, tying her hair in a ponytail, and he must say, she has lovely hair, you know, shiny and long and shiny and so not like her brothers’ and shiny — and did he say shiny? — and him admitting that is truly saying _a lot_. He’d still rather the strands are not red, and he’d still rather she not be a Weasley nor a Gryffindor, but alas, such are the disappointments in the life of Draco Malfoy, magnificent though he is. He’s simply enviably too yummy that he must have a few disappointments every now and then. Nature’s way of balancing itself or something.

“Ah, Ginevra, love of my fantabulous life, have you knowledge of where your boyfriend has run off to? I would like for him to make love to me.” He’s almost tempted to jump up and down in unsuppressed glee at the horrified faces of Side-Kick and Bee-Hive and whoever else is currently listening in on them. Who’d have thought that a visit to the lions’ den can be so _cosmically orgasmic_?

“I won the coin toss, Malfoy. Harry’s mine for the night.” See? _See?_ So, _so_ deliciously sarcastic, a woman after his own heart if there ever was!

He’s got this theory that she’s really the queen of bitches who just had the misfortune of being born in a family of hapless peasants. Poor, poor Ginevra, no pun intended. If it weren’t for her Gryffindor sensibilities and that red hair, she could have been his sister! Except, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t quite like that either. He likes undivided attention and a sister will surely halve that, so never mind.

_Anyway_ , Weaslette, he believes, is his least disliked Weasley, not necessarily because he fears her mad skills with a wand and her infamous Bat-Bogey Hex — which he was _unfairly_ in the receiving end of before, _ugh_ , the experience still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth — but because he’s Saint Potter-Who’s-Straight-But-Didn’t-Quite-Mind-Snogging-Draco-Malfoy-To-Whom-He-Signed-Away-His-Virginity’s lady friend. And, well, she’s fairly decent and cute as a darling button. She’s such a kitten that, in the future, whenever he feels bad, he’s resolved himself to hugging her instead of looking for strays that may be bearing fleas, which is just _ew_.

“Ginny! How can you stand that bloody prick talking like that? It’s gross!” Weasley again _hollers_. Seriously, that cosmic dust should know how to speak in normal volumes.

“Ron, stop being a drama queen.”

_Yes, Weasley, stop being like me._ That is _so_ not on.

“Besides, Harry says he’s not so bad really.”

Not so bad? Did Potter really say that? _My God! Is he trying to emasculate me? Ugh_ , if he weren’t so hot, Draco’d murder him in his sleep. Or rape him. Whichever’s more gratifying, he supposes.

Okay, so rape it is.

“In bed, you mean? Did he clarify that? Not so bad _in bed_? Because I’m fantastic in bed!”

Weaslette rolls her eyes at him, and even though he’s still firm on the argument that such an act is so undignified, she’s forgiven on the account that she’s _such a darling button!_

“Malfoy, we don’t enjoy your humour, so please refrain from giving in to your genetic impulses to be an arse. You’re in Gryffindor territory, don’t forget,” Ms. Muggle-born says, and he swears there’s a threat there somewhere. _Ugh_ , she’s such a brute. And Weasley’s such a milksop. No wonder they’re together: They’re bloody cosmic harmony in motion!

“I’m all for free-for-all, but, see, I have a date with Harry so I’m going now. See you guys later!” And then she smiles saucily at him, and Draco thinks that if she weren’t Boy-Who’s-Got-It-Going-On’s girlfriend, he’d dare a hex her way. Not that he’d really still do it if she weren’t the girlfriend for fear of bodily harm, but he’d never tell her that, of course.

_Besides,_ _have I said that she’s such a darling button?_ He thinks he might have squealed in absolute hysteria over her amazing darlingness if it weren’t such a plebeian thing to do, and by gods, he’s beginning to feel the fingers of panic clutch at his poetic heart because he’s starting to behave like a pansy Gryff.

_Heart be still_ , they’re so agonizingly and literally bright, it’s infectious. And he’s only being subjected to their colours, what more their actual ginger selves? _Qué horror!_

When Weaslette’s gone, and after a last comment about how disgustingly cavalier Draco’s being — he’s mightily surprised that Weasley even knows the meaning of the word — the common room settles down with most going back to their dormitories. They’re absolutely nasty people for ignoring his presence in the room. _Seriously_ , that is so offensive. Woe is he! Woe is he who’s a self-confessed attention whore and yet is cast aside! It’s so not supposed to happen that way! Nobody ignores a Malfoy! Well…there’s always his Aunt Durilda, but she’s really a case all on her own.

He sniffs, delicately, because his aristocratic nose won’t permit any other kind of sniffing. Might as well make the most of what’s left. God, that sounds wrong even in his own head. And _ew_ , they’re Gryffs! He doesn’t do Gryffindors, except for Harry Who-Possibly-Owns-Draco-Malfoy’s-Manhood Potter — oh he’ll do him anytime, or, well, be done by him anytime, whichever happens first. And speaking of those he doesn’t do, Hufflepuffs are out of the question as well, except, perhaps, for Diggory, if he weren’t so dead. _Who_ does Hufflepuffs anyway? Except for other badgers, that is, and _that_ is an image he really doesn’t need. _Ugh,_ his predilection is not boding well for his concept of inter-house cooperation. Something _must_ be done!

Oh, that’s it! His next girlfriend will be from the yellow house, and yes, girlfriend, because a Hufflepuff boyfriend is the worst there is, except for Diggory, but, again, he’s irrevocably, indisputably, irrefutably dead, he gives the expression “he’s _so_ dead” a whole new definition.

Anyway, a Hufflepuff girlfriend it is. He’s decided. Very, very so. He just has to convince himself that.

“Hey, guys, Seamus and I are hitting the hay. Night all.”

He’s about to say goodnight but he catches himself right away — _whew_ — and remembers that he’s still in a nightmare, which is called the Gryffindor common room. Then he sees Thomas standing up, and _what is that he’s wearing?_

“Thomas, are you wearing denim?”

“Er—yeah…”

“Why? Why would you be wearing material for bivouacs? Why? Why would anyone willingly do that?” _Ugh_ , too pleb!

“Er—Hermione, what’s he talking about?”

Bee-Hive sighs exasperatedly, and he can’t help but agree with her there. These bloody Gryffindors are taxingly exasperating! _Seriously._ Oh wait…is she directing that sigh at him?

“Malfoy, in the past, that was what it was used for. Levis came up with an idea to use it for trousers. A Muggle thing. And a bivouac is a tent, Dean.”

Right. Muggle. “Levis?”

“Very popular jeans.”

“Cor, Malfoy, just how outdated are you?” Finnigan quips, that bloody nonce, who asked for his opinion anyway? The day that he necessitates the fucking Irish’s opinion is the day he gives up looking good in dragonhide trousers that do infinite justice to his fine arse, which will never happen because it’s cosmically impossible — he’s born good-looking: _and God said let there be beauty and there was Draco Malfoy_.

“For your information, _Finnigan_ ,” he starts, and he just loves how his enunciation makes the bloody dolt’s name synonymous to shit, which he considers Finnigan really is. _Seriously_ , he’s a walking, talking fashion advertisement, and sodding Finnigan thinks he’s _outdated_? _Sacré bleu!_ “I get bespoke ensemble from Ozwald Boateng himself, which is a lot more than I can say for you and your poxy Muggle Levis, you lowly commoner! I bet you don’t even know who Boateng is, nonce that you are in upper-class fashion. I wouldn’t even put it past you to consult beggars in the street or that bat Trelawney herself for fashion advice! Not that it matters really, they’re both six of one and half a dozen of the other anyway.

“God, you’re an embarrassment to the male species, I think you should consider putting yourself up for adoption, and include the rest of you bloody Gryffindor lot in that, too! It would save the fashion world from shame.

“ _My stars_ , I can’t believe I’m defending my style from neanderthals like you! _Seriously_ , this is the lowest of the low. Lower than when my hairstylist suggested that white-blond is the same as platinum-blond. _Ugh_ , I _just_ had to fire her because, _come on_ , who mistakes both such obviously different colours? And to think I’ve had her for years! Just imagine what terrible, _catastrophic_ things she could’ve done to my fabulous hair if I hadn’t had the foresight to fire her on the spot! And the salon! She could’ve cocked up its reputation, and _then_ where will wizards awesome as myself go for hair appointments?”

The four Gryffindor divvies are looking at him with their mouths agape, and isn’t that just bleeding fantastic!

“Right, then.” Awkward silence. “You know, Malfoy, when Harry said you blether, I didn’t think he was serious.”

“I do _not_ blether, you pillocking weasel!” _Ugh_ , seriously! He waxes poetic because he’s sensitive — just not towards the great unwashed, but that’s different — and delicate and sophisticated like that, but he _so_ does not blether. That’s too low-class and he’s genetically incapable of doing anything that’s too plebeian.

Okay, maybe one of these days he’ll really indulge in the commoner activity of copping a feel because Harry Salaciously-Good-Looking Potter is equally genetically incapable of lowering his hotness metre, but _that_ is a very different case altogether.

“I’m sure somewhere in all the things you said was worth a yellow card, and fuck you for that, Malfoy, but you’re in Gryffindor, we can give you the red card anytime we want, so it’s nearly impossible to get us down in our own field. Night, mate.” Thomas nods at him _congenially_.

A _what?_ Why is he being given yellow and red cards? Should…he give them birthday cards, too? Bloody, effing Gryffindors and their bloody, effing traditions!

“Dean does be right, eh. You made a dog’s dinner of your rant, mate! Fuck you. But g’night all the same.” Finnigan waves at him _amiably_.

And he made… _what_ now? Dog’s dinner? What the fuck? Bloody, effing Gryffindors and their bloody, effing habits!

And _dammit_! Why are they remaining so friendly? That is so wrong, wrong on so many levels. God,they all need to be a little more Slytherin or they’re going to blind him with their rainbow personalities. Too, _too_ sickeningly kind! Okay, so they more than once told him to bonk himself, but the exchange was still disturbingly…innocuous.

_Ugh!_ And another _ugh_ because he knows he’s been insulted somehow. He turns to Side-Kick and Bee-Hive, and for a moment, hesitates asking them what those two said because in _his_ part of the globe, they didn’t make an ounce of sense, but before he can proceed to demand answers, Weasley’s already laughing at him.

“Two words, Malfoy: Ask Harry.” He then yawns. Widely, tonsils showing. _Ew._ “I’m knackered! Guess I’m off to bed, too, Hermione. If he tries something funny, hex the bad attitude out of him.” And then he laughs again, and Draco itches for his wand. _Bleeding mother of all that’s fluffy_ , these commoners don’t know their stations in life! Nobody talks down on a Malfoy. It’s sacrilegious! A blasphemy of the highest order!

“Good night, Ron.”

When he’s halfway up the stairs, he turns back and offers a warning, “No funny business, Malfoy!”

_Ooh, I’m soo scared._

“And by ‘funny’ I hope you’re not making sexual references because _surely_ you know my blood status will not permit that?”

“Your sense of humour is why you’re a Billy no-mates.” Weasley _smirks_ at him and disappears up the stairwell.

_Smirks_ , dammit, that’s _his_ trademark! It’s like his birthright or something. Fucking Weasel. And he’s _who_ now? Bloody, effing Gryffindors and their bloody, effing…Billies! Damn that fucking Weasley for knowing he doesn’t understand a single thing that’s been said.

Good God, he’s soaking up so much Gryffindor culture, he almost feels like there’s not enough bath water in the world to cleanse him of this — this _stain_.

_This_ is the lowest of the low, as low as having to defend his style. Dammit, and he must be looking so confused now that he induces hysterical laughter from Bee-Hive. Bloody Muggle-born Granger’s laughing at him. _Fan-effing-tastic!_

“Oh, Malfoy, you look so discombobulated, I almost want to cry for you.”

_Who_ the hell uses words like ‘discombobulated?’ And _gee_ , if that’s almost-crying, he wonders how she almost-laughs.

“You purebloods are so sheltered, no wonder Harry says you’re a blast to talk to!”

Of course he’s a blast to talk to! He’s Draco Malfoy! There’s no need to be sarcastic about it.

“Do stop laughing, Granger, I can see your tonsils from where I’m standing. Proper ladies of the court do not behave like that.”

“Come off it, Malfoy, you’re impossibly prissy.” She shakes her head. “So, why are you really here? Harry?”

“You’re talking to me?”

“Well, I was trying to telepathise with you, but your hair-care products are repelling the message. But I suppose that’s fine. You have lovely hair. Very feminine.”

“Thank you. My hair is very amused.” He glares...not that it makes a difference because he’s been glaring for quite a while. Still, points for his effort.

Wait…

Wait just a fucking minute!

Are they having a civil conversation? Is he not insulting her blood status? Is she not calling him names? Are they still Draco Malfoy and bloody Hermi-what’s-her-name Granger? He honestly doesn’t know what to think, and he _rarely_ doesn’t know what to think — it’s against his genetic makeup, you know, like being only capable of contempt for the swinish multitude and being very incapable of not looking literally godsend.

His reason for coming to Gryffindor Tower is so obviously not here, and he’s wondering why in nine levels of hell he’s still in this common room. It’s all big chairs that are probably impossibly comfortable, and blazing hearths, and fuzzy hearthrugs, and ceramic cups with ginger-spiked hot cocoa, and colourful afghan, and bloody Gryffindor tapestries — it’s ridiculously cosy and the place screams absolute liquorice-sticks-flavoured goodness, plus a sprinkling of chocolate frog shavings. _Seriously_ , places like this are places where it’s actually inappropriate for him to wear his dragonhide trousers because his badass-hotness then would clash with everything in the room, from the smiling pictures to the worn-out rugs to the effing dust fucking bunnies.

She shrugs, gesturing vaguely to the mismatched sets of sofas. “Well, whatever. Wait for Harry, if you want. Make yourself comfortable.”

“No thank you. If I stay here a second longer, I’d go blind from all these red and gold.” Not to mention he’d probably melt from all the good vibes like how a demon melts under holy water.

He turns towards the door with enough force to make his robes billow in his wake because it’s so deliciously dramatic that way. It’s in his blood, really. While his mother sweeps a disinterested gaze, and his father flicks his hair — which, now that he thinks about it, is little too feminine, really, it’s worrying sometimes — he makes his robes billow because he’s just a mite cooler than his parents, thank you very much. And Snape was really just a poxy, trying-hard copycat, _Salazar Slytherin, bless his greasy hair— I mean, soul._

He hurries along the corridors. _Ugh_ , he can still feel Gryffindor vibes clinging to his skin, and knowing him, he’s probably allergic to it — _my stars_ , he can already feel himself itching. He needs a bath. One with bubbles, and fragrance oil, probably jasmine and honey, and moisturizers, and jets, and of course, he can’t possibly forget aroma therapy and other scented candles to set the mood. And then he’ll be back to all his Slytherin glory.

Now, if only he can find Potter and convince him to join him...

* * *

 

“Lover boy!” he calls out the next day, ambling towards the Gryffindor table, and when the eyes of everyone in the Great Hall fall upon him, he positively glows. He _just_ loves attention. Of course, his good mood is nearly dampened when he hears Potter groan. That stupid, pillocking pillock! When one is called to attention by Draco Malfoy, one does not groan but exalts. Everyone knows that, it’s practically a golden rule: Do unto Draco what he commands you. Of course, Harry bloody Potter may be too sexy for rules, but still, Draco reckons Golden Boy’s being just a mite too inconsiderate of others’ feelings. _Git._

“Potter!” He imperiously drops on the space beside the Boy-Who-Despairs. “Listen up, Golden Boy. I need you to do something for me.”

“And I’m supposed to agree because…?”

He sighs, heavily, because seriously, does Potter still not know that there’s only one kind of punishment waiting for him? “Well, _duh!_ I’ll rape you otherwise.” Not that that’s actually a punishment for Potter; it’s more of a reward for Draco, really.

A more painful-sounding groan comes from in front of him. “Blimey, Malfoy, you just had to ruin our breakfast, hadn’t you?”

“Good morning to you, too, love bunny, and to you to you, too, Granger. And of course, to you, the woman after my own heart!” He rises from his position — but not before being superbly delighted by Weasley’s indignant squawk — leans over Potter, and touches Weaslette’s shiny, shiny hair. _Ooh_ , he just loves that sheen! It’s almost like his, and he shouldn’t really be fond of things less shiny than his fabulous hair, but nothing can really come close to his crown of glory, so he settles for the next best thing: Weaslette’s. Maybe she can share some hair tips with Granger — _gosh_ , Bee-Hive’s looking positively ridiculous with her bushy mane. Doesn’t she know that bushy is so last season?

“You have a chasm in your chest, Malfoy, where that supposed heart should be.”

“Ha bloody ha, you set my heart a-flutter with your lovely words.” He steals the fork from Boy-Who-Makes-Not- _Just_ -His-Heart-Flutter’s hand and spears a sausage from his plate. “You’re just jealous because I like Ginevra more.”

“Oh yes, that’s it.”

_Seriously_ , did he really have to phrase it like that? Now he’s having images in his head of Potter saying the exact same thing, but breathy, and moaning, and sweating, and completely under his mercy.

Draco swallows with a little difficulty and banishes the thought immediately, lest there be some gratuitous tenting in his already too tight trousers, which are, by the way, top grain dragonhide and so much better than those, _ugh_ , Muggle Levis — they’re so poxy, completely third-rate, unquestionably, irrevocably, damningly _Muggle_. And then he catches himself taking a cleansing breath because, _oh dear_ , his trousers _are_ tightening and he thinks his imagination is just too strong and vivid sometimes. Thank God for robes!

“Hey, Harry, I’ll go ahead. I have double Transfiguration,” Weaslette pipes in, finishing her breakfast before giving Potter a kiss on the cheek, looking just a little too shy that Draco feels the urge to hug her tight then stuff her in his trunk together with all the little darling trinkets he’s collected.

He barely suppresses the impulse to squeal. _Holy mother of bunny-eared adorable Potters,_ this girl is so, _so_ unbearably darling, she makes him want to abandon his name and concede to falling into the fundamentally plebeian act of squealing!

_Oh my heart, be still_ , she’s becoming his obsession.

Of course, that’s after his hair, and then his glorious self, and then Harry Steamy-Sex-On-Legs Potter, and then Harry-Dominant-Potter-Topping-Sexy-Writhing-Draco — for he’s admitted that he’s so more than willing to try bottoming for I-Make-Quidditch-Look-Hot because, yes, Potter’s _that_ sexy, and fit, and sinful, and deliciously, unforgivably, swooning-ly manly, he makes Draco squirm in that scrummy, tempting manner — and then Draco-Topping-Submissive-Potter — because, _oh God_ , control is absolutely _orgasmic_ , and then maybe they can change positions again because Potter makes a ridiculously delicious hot top, experiment some more, and, _oh dear_ , he’s halfway to being successful in cutting off the circulation of a certain part of his anatomy — and then his divine pedicurist and newly acquired manicurist, who, by the way, is such a doll!

“I’ll walk you there,” replies Boy-Who-Lived-Charmed-And-Got-Himself-A-Weaslette — and probably a Malfoy, too, but Potter doesn’t need to know that — and _aw_ isn’t he just the perfect gentleman?

“Mate, she’s my sister, please no cheesy offers in front of me.” Weasley seems even more pained, and Draco delights in his misery, almost feels like a hag cackling over a boiling cauldron, except he _doesn’t_ look like a hag, and he _doesn’t_ cackle, excuse me, that is such a villainous cliché that it merits a manicured thumbs down.

“Ron, give it up. They’re together, and Ginny’s glaring at you again. That can only lead to one thing,” says Bee-Hive, and he wonders what she means by that.

Lead to what exactly? If it’s cursing in the general direction of Weasley, oh he’s all for that, that’ll be the dessert to his breakfast, which, up to this point, has only really consisted of a sausage — _ahem_ — from Potter’s plate, a cryptic wave to the Slytherins over at their table, and a brush-up with the whole House of Gryffindor. Not exactly filling — and where the hell is his eggs Benedict? Not that he’s fond of hollandaise, but it’s the principle of the thing — so he’s quite looking forward to dessert, and he’ll have a hexed Weasley over anything anytime, except, of course, for a sexy Potter, which he knows is just going to be so sinfully sweet, he’d get a toothache because of it.

“Go on, Weasel, tell him how he can’t possibly be touching Ginevra, because God knows where those hands exactly touch when we’re not looking,” he goads, and then he reconsiders: a choking Weasley, through Draco’s own Slytherin efforts, is more of a dessert than another Gryffindor being wand-happy in the Weasel’s direction.

“Malfoy, if you could just curb you demonic tendencies for five blessed minutes, the world would weep with joy.”

He can see Bee-Hive glaring at him, but for some reason — he thinks it’s his innate clairvoyance because he’s just really cool like that — he discerns only annoyance there. No hatred. Just like last night. _Ooh boy_ , these Gryffindor do-gooders will be the death of him, and the coup de grace they’ll deliver is candy-sweet forgiveness. And fluffy love. And cottony understanding. And bloody, effing Gryffindor friendship with bows and glitters and man-hugs. _Salazar Slytherin, saviour of my Slytherin — not to mention sexy and incredibly mouth-watering — soul_ , is a sword that will strike deep and true too much to ask for? Of course, the sword has to be sanitized first because, at the off chance that it misses his heart and he lives, he isn’t going to bleeding well want the burden of infection, is he?

Not wanting to philosophize further on the strange ways a Gryffindor mind works, he ignores Granger and her scary hair — not that that’s particularly hard to do at all — internally mourns the scones he could be eating right now, grabs a piece of toast instead, then stands up and announces that Merlin himself has appointed him to share his positively superior presence with Weaslette and the Golden Boy, much to the annoyance of said boy and the amusement of said Weaslette.

When the Boy-Who-Causes-Everyone’s-Hard-On-Very-Annoyingly-Unwittingly starts his complaining, Draco grabs his and his darling button’s hands, pulls them towards the doors, then cuts off another attempt at complaining, “Hush now, Potter. Isn’t this what _friends_ do?”

Potter groans again, and Draco ignores the look he shares with Weaslette but quietly bristles at the groaning. _Honestly_ , the only time someone should be groaning in his presence is when that someone is doing the naughty with him, otherwise nothing else is permitted except exalting.

Okay, My-Arse-Looks-Fine Potter can complain in his presence anytime so long as it’s interspersed with very inappropriate touching, which really is the point of hanging out with Golden Boy in the first place. Of course, He-Who-Must-Be-Sex-Personified probably isn’t aware of this, but Draco’s all about fixing… _things_.

Potter still hasn’t conceded to his request, unaware, yet again, that Draco doesn’t have to specify his requests and demands because it’s really a sin to not grant them anyway. It’s like turning Muggle by not wearing white after Labour Day or something — a definite, definite faux pas.

Really now, he’s got to make Potter read the Malfoy Prescript because the boy is so endearingly ignorant of the fine print of life’s contract, although a snog in exchange can do a good job of excusing him. Well, a snog and more inappropriate touching over tea — Orange Pekoe if Prince of Wales is unavailable, and proper digestives please. But before he can make his point, something catches his attention; the gods must really be smiling down at him today — the gods and a throng of horny angels, that is. Plus a couple more students from different Houses.

Seriously, he’s so fine, he makes _himself_ hot.

Sliding an arm around Weaslette’s shoulders and tucking her to his side like the adorable button that she is, he winds his other arm around Potter’s waist and pulls him until they’re hip-to-hip — and almost forgets what he’s doing as he’s once more attacked with the urge to properly cop a feel, which means sliding his hand lower until it’s on Potter’s sexy arse, except he won’t because that’s still too plebeian for him. Maybe some other time…when they’re alone and he’s Potter’s to do with as he pleases, preferably with silk sheets of course.

Oh God,something sweet and slow has just rushed down inside his tight trousers, and if he’s not careful, he’ll find himself explaining why he can’t walk properly.

“Blaise, sweetheart, my favourite Zabini! It’s so lovely to see you in these sacred halls of learning. Charmed to see me again, I’m sure, but let’s not talk about me and my fabulousness, although I have no doubts that the topic of me interests you deeply. Anyway, you know Ginevra, the love of my magical life.” He’s having a hard time suppressing his delight at what he’s about to say next, “Oh, and you know Harry Potter, he saved the Wizarding world, killed Voldemort, hero of all, _lover_ of mine.”

He expected Zabini’s deadpan expression when listing off who Potter is, and when he’s reached the last item, Zabini’s eyes have widened so very incredibly, Draco fears they might just pop, and that’s just gross. _Ew._ He so doesn’t need more disfigured minions — not that he has disfigured minions, but since they splendidly suck at getting to his level of awesomeness, which is the closest one can get without becoming a god himself — he means, _other gods_ , because he already is in the bedroom department (“ _oh God, oh God, oh God, Draco”_ to which the reply is, _“I know, darling”_ ) — they might as well be disfigured. But he digresses, and oh my lord, the look on closet-homophile Zabini’s face is absolutely, positively, too, too amazingly orgasmic! Well, not as orgasmic as seeing Weasel’s reactions every time he calls Potter lover, but close. Kind of.

He presses himself closer to Potter, and he nearly gives in to the impulse to laugh madly at the further scandalized look on his housemate’s face, but he doesn’t because, _ugh_ , that’s so passé in situations like this. _Really_ , mad laughter? Cliché much? And he’s not so crass as to laugh in the face of a fellow Slytherin.

At least not most of the time.

Besides, he absolutely loves Zabini — oh no question about _that_. After all, the boy is such an entertainment, he’s almost like a puppy, except not as cute and adorable and darling. Okay, so…maybe not like a puppy. But still.

“I’d really love to stay and chat with you some more, maybe go over your preference for lace and ruffles and _tutus_ — because God knows we don’t already talk about that in the Slytherin common room, but I still have to take my darling to her class, and my _lover_ and I still have some pleasures— I mean, business to pursue. Ta, sweetheart. Take care now, you hear? Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, would we?” The only thing that Draco doesn’t really want to happen to Zabini is Potter, _oh no_ , because Harry Potter only happens to Draco Malfoy.

And Ginevra Weasley, fine.

“That’s your housemate you just traumatized. You’re certifiable, Malfoy,” Weaslette says as they turn around a corner.

Traumatized? More like made overly jealous! Ah, but he’s not so disloyal to his House that he’d tell that to these two Gryffs, unless his Slytherins really turn into bloody plebeian tossers before he can say ‘fit in my trousers!’

“That’s what they say about geniuses,” he says instead, and he delicately extricates himself from them, turning around to walk backwards so he faces them as they move along. “Come now, my darling Ginevra, Potter, hold hands! That’s what couples do!” As if on cue, they both blush, and aren’t they just too adorable? Well, Ginevra’s adorable and Potter’s erotic, but same difference. _Psh_ , details, details. “Or we can arrange for a ménage à trois, the highest honour a prince can give to his knaves, don’t you think? And you know I am all for honouring.”

Potter groans again, and Draco’s tempted to throw a shoe at him, except that’s too pleb so never mind.

“Bugger off, Malfoy.”

“Must I repeat myself a _thousand_ times? I’m delicate! I _don’t_ ‘bugger.’ I ‘ _lie with_.’ Don’t be unrefined in my presence, Potter, you sully my name.” Not that he has any problems with sullying per se, not as long as it comes with less clothing, more skin, and multiple earth-shattering orgasms.

“Ginny, remember when you told me I was an idiot? You win. I’m an idiot. Class A. A bloody good one for associating with him.”

Hey, that’s really insulting! Anyone associating with a Malfoy is not an idiot; it only means that person has good tastes. Fine, a masochistic tendency, too, for knowing that they’ll just be overshadowed and still they enjoy it, but still, good taste is as good taste does.

“You’re not a tosser, Potter!” A pause. “Okay, you are, but not because of mere association with me. Association with me is an indication of good taste, which all you Gryffindor philistines apparently lack. _My God_ , what you lack in good taste you make up for in—well, nothing! How your ancestors managed to survive before there was me is beyond anyone’s comprehension.”

If Weaslette isn’t such a cute trinket and Potter a walking erogenous zone, he’d lecture them on propriety and why eye-rolling is wholly undignified.

“This is my stop. Well, good luck, Harry. You need a lot to be able to deal with Malfoy. He seems to be in a mood for some tosh. And a few more insults along the lines of idiot.”

Tosh! He so does not do tosh! Malfoys simply do not do pretentious because somewhere in their genetic code, the gods in heaven have emblazoned pure, unfiltered, unadulterated class. Well…Aunt Durilda was hiding under a rock that time so she missed the blessing, but she’s not very important right now. And by gods, he’s right there, closer than a stone’s throw away, they don’t have to talk like he isn’t! And if Ginevra weren’t such a fine addition to his collection of darling things, he’d have considered hexing her.

Alas, such is not the case for Ginevra continues to be one of his newly found favourite things, not to mention that the goody Gryffindor knows more than her fair share of not so goody hexes.

Whoever said he didn’t appreciate anything Weasley?

“Come now, Potter, don’t just stand there looking like a neanderthal just because Ginevra has kissed you. It makes you look like a very virgi— Oh, hello there, Headmistress McGonagall! It’s always very charming to see you! Never fails to brighten my day even if I had just spent my breakfast with philistine Gryffindors who, might I just add, are in dire need of makeovers. And a quick roll in the hay lest they combust from all that raw energy. Unresolved sexual tension is so on, but not with plebeians in red and gold.

“We have just brought the love of both our lives safely to your class by the way, and sad as I am to leave your adoring presence, my lover and I must go and indulge in some intense debauchery before our first period. I really insist on tea and crumpets next time, Headmistress. And that’s an interesting headpiece, I must say. May I suggest mauve next time? Ta, Headmistress!”

Really now, did McPrudish have to give him detention and deduct points from Slytherin because of honesty? Those virginal Gryffs are truly in need of an excellent shag, and rose simply isn’t her colour! _Honestly_ , is there anyone in Hogwarts, aside from himself, who knows and _understands_ the importance of their colour charts?

“You’re off your rocker, Malfoy. You don’t pontificate—”

“Pontificate!”

“—in front of McGonagall like that!”

“I don’t pontificate, Potter! And the _key_ to a healthy relationship — sexual, platonic, apprenticeship, or otherwise — is honesty.” Of course, unless it’s with a highly desirable individual he approves of, then its mind-blowing sex. Against the wall, just for the kink.

“You landed me in detention!”

“For a _good_ cause, Potter. You should know it’s alright, your hero complex should pick up on that.”

“But it’s with you!”

“Exactly!”

“Detention with you is never pleasant.”

“I resent that! Detention with me is very, very pleasant if we just go straight to business, if you get my drift.” Cue seductive smile, and he just has to pat himself on the back for this one.

Potter shakes his head. “You’re an incorrigible sod, Malfoy.”

“Incorri—” A grin slowly makes itself comfortable on his mouth — delectable, sensuous, heaven-to-goodness kissable, thoroughly Potter-kissed mouth, if he may so himself. “Incorrigible. You did your homework, Potter.” Golden Boy laughs again and he thinks it’s such an adorable laugh but still a waste of a good pair of lips because they’re not snogging him instead. “Anyway, about what I was talking about a while ago—”

“You were talking about something a while ago? Sure you weren’t just prattling away like usual?”

“Ha-ha, very funny, knave. We Malfoys don’t prattle, it’s against our code.”

“Code? What, like, ‘Malfoys do not prattle, and woe betide he who suggests that it is not their prerogative to talk at length’?”

“How’d you guess that? Although it’s ‘bechance’ actually.” Wow, is Potter clairvoyant, too? He’s just recited a prescription verbatim! Oh my stars, can he get any sexier? Five-hundred-eighty-six more and they can practically get married! And then he can get all the sex he wants for free, no more threats of rape. Maybe.

Potter shakes his head. “Never mind. So, you were saying?”

“Ah yes. I was saying, I heard you’re _very_ gifted — you get my drift — and how wonderful and pleasurable it would be for me if you could shove your big, _manly_ d—”

“Malfoy, _you_ are disturbing.”

“—uties aside this afternoon to teach me how to conjure a Patronus.” Cue smirk. “Whatever were you thinking, Potter?” Potter being cheeky is sexily frustrating. Potter smiling is frustratingly sexy. Potter _blushing_ is doubtlessly sexy in a terribly frustrating way that makes him think it’s supposed to be adorable but, really, comes out as arousing instead. Can he say what a turn on?

Oh yes. God, yes.

And then he finds himself pulling his robes closer around his person, cursing whoever thought that dragonhide should be made into trousers.

_Red Alert, Red Alert_ , _Red fucking Alert_ , Draco Malfoy’s fancy pants are cutting off the circulation of an honest-to-goodness important part of his anatomy. His favourite part. SOS.

“Quaffles shooting into hoops,” Potter answers, just this side of innocent.

Seriously, _SOS!_

Imagery is the last thing he needs, and if Potter’s doing this on purpose, angels save the boy, he won’t be the Boy-Who-Lived for long.

Draco clears his throat and blatantly ignores his impulse to call on Not-So-Innocent-Minded Potter’s paronomasia, which is brilliant, really, but oh so untimely: Their first period is DADA and unless Draco can pass a practical with an uncooperative, _er_ , wand, then he’s better off teaching Harry Potential-Owner-Of-Draco’s-Thing Potter theology.

_Shooting into hoops…_ He won’t be bated. He shan’t, he shan’t. “I’ll let you catch the snitch next game, you don’t have to practice at all, skive off and teach me. It’s your duty, along with making sure that the ground I walk on is litter-free and the air I breathe is sterilely clean. Embrace your birthright, Potter.”

“My birthright is servitude?”

_Duh!_ Or, well, he means, _almost duh!_ “Close. Thralldom under Draco Malfoy!” That’s sexy, kind of has that vampiric air about it, _Grr, must bite Potter_. “Isn’t your destiny _amazing_? I’m so excited for you, Potter, I’m almost tickled pink! Except pink’s not my colour, but that’s not the point. The point is, it’s like Christmas for you all over again. Except now, instead of socks, you get the fabulous me!”

Potter groans.

_Grr, vampire grr_ , stop groaning! Honestly, hotness can only get him so far.

“Why do you need to learn how to do a Patronus charm? You won’t need it. Not anymore.”

“And what if I want smoky, silvery décor? Think of parties!”

“You can’t do it. You’re too corrupted to be able to produce one.”

“If you corrupt me, then it’ll negate earlier corruptions and it’ll be like a baptism. I’m going to be a saint just like you because you don’t really corrupt; you just influence — influence and _sway_. You’re too kind, you embarrass nuns. Forgive me, Father Potter, I’ve been too hedonistic of late.”

“I don’t even want to try to understand what you just said.”

“Oh, you know, corruption, sinning…debauchery—”

“If I agree, will you promise to be normal for a week?”

“I am normal!”

“Malfoy...” _Ooh_ , that low, threatening voice makes him want to…purr. Cor, can Potter get any sexier?

“Fine, I’ll stick to your definition of normal, which I know is definitely boring. Were you born boring?”

“Quidditch practice then.”

That morning finds Draco Malfoy conceding defeat and non-pouting. And if he doesn’t get snogged soon, there will be murder. Nay, manslaughter, and he will not be held responsible.

* * *

 

“This classroom’s already occupied, Granger. Just thought I’d point it out,” he says in the most urbane tone he can muster.

“Obviously.”

“Then go away if it’s _so_ obvious. Honestly, Granger, and you call yourself the smartest witch of our batch.” Forget urbane.

_“Expecto Patronum!”_ A silvery wisp of an otter shoots out of her wand and circles around the room once before disappearing.

_Gee_ , can Bee-Hive make the message any clearer? Bloody Potter can’t be arsed to care, sending his Muggle-born lackey to do his job. How thick can that pillock get? It’s supposed to be a date! _Ugh_ , now he has to be in the company of the Mud— _Muggle-born_. This so not on!

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Okay, he gets it, the silly bint can pull a Patronus charm so easily while he’s so ignorant of the basics. Doesn’t need to rub it in his face.

One of the things he hates the most is being in a social situation with anyone who has something he hasn’t, and, _ugh_ , of all people, it has to be Bee-Hive! She doesn’t even have the slightest inclination towards anything remotely fashionable! _Seriously_ , big hair is so medieval, and even then it wasn’t so attractive. And maybe he should’ve informed his Aunt Bella — _Salazar Slytherin, bless her corrupted, misguided soul_ — of that so she wouldn’t have died a walking fashion gaffe, and now he knows he’ll forever regret not helping his schizo relative in the hair department, and, oh my stars, what if wherever her soul goes only accepts looks-oriented souls? His Aunt Bella will forever be an outcast!

Poor, poor Aunt Bellatrix, not that her hebephrenic self is not very endearing of course — because it is, in that disturbing, creepy, Le- _strange_ way — but he reckons that certain, _er_ , asset of hers won’t help her very much. After all, schizophrenic-gothic-cackle madness is an acquired taste, and it took him seventeen years and free Occlumency lessons before he himself acquired it.

Really, Aunt Bella is just like caviar, except, probably, not as— _well_ , appetizing. And high-priced. And classy. Okay, fine, the similarities stop at “acquired taste.”

Annoyed at this current social situation — not that this one is a particularly social situation, but the same principle applies — Draco falls back on what he does best, which is being an arse, although a very gorgeous one at that, if he may so himself, “Which is more than I can say for you.”

Bee-Hive immediately glares at him, and he swears evil simply lurks under that goody Gryffindor exterior! She’s giving off that stroppy aura, and any minute now she’s going to punch him again, like that time she hit him in third year, and oh my God, he so bruises easily, and bruises don’t really give that dramatic injured look on him because his skin is too pale and they’ll only look like garish decorations and fake tattoos. He’ll never pull off tragic hero, he knows, that’s just something that’s going to be Potter’s alone. Maybe he can be the tragic hero’s greatest temptation instead, and they can proceed to save the world one _Kama Sutra_ position at a time. It’s an interesting prospect.

A _very_ interesting prospect, that.

“Either you keep your mouth in check or you’re not going to learn anything at all. Harry’s never going to teach you himself, Malfoy.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Yeah, right, like he believes that. Potter’s too saintly to let anyone asking for help go unnoticed. It goes against his genetic Gryffindor makeup.

Granger holds her glare for a few seconds longer before sighing and waving a dismissive hand. “You don’t believe me, do you?” Well, _duh!_ Obvious much? “Some things are too raw to remember. Believe me, Malfoy, if you’re waiting for Harry to teach you, you’ll be waiting for a terribly long time.”

“Like how long? An hour?” He barely manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Potter is a sucker for helpless people.”

Granger takes a deep breath, and Draco detachedly wonders if he’s going to be inhaled. “For a Patronus to work, you need a happy memory to fuel the magic.”

Okay, so she’s decided to ignore him, annoying bint. Nobody ignores a Malfoy! But he doubts she’s really going to capitulate to his demands. Fucking stubborn Gryffindors, seriously, they give the word a whole new definition.

“A happy memory? That’s all? And Potter couldn’t just have told me this when I asked for lessons?”

Draco can see a muscle tick in Granger’s jaw as she clenches her teeth. He doesn’t think he has particularly insulted Potter but judging by Bee-Hive’s reaction, well, he can’t be too sure.

_Curious._ Golden Boy, apparently, is not just sex on legs; he’s mysterious sex on legs. No wonder he’s attracted to Potter — Draco Malfoy has always been a fan of the mysterious. Kind of. Or maybe that’s just in Potter’s case. _Hmm…_

“Why don’t you just cast it and we can end both our suffering?”

“Suffering! Being with me is good for the soul, I’ll have you know.”

“True, allowing others to knock _you_ out is quite refreshing. To the soul, that is.”

Draco sniffs delicately because he’s refined like that. “Excuse me, I let you do that. I wouldn’t have been caught manhandling a girl.”

Bee-Hive smirks, and Draco’s sure that the universe has it out for him. Is _everybody_ smirking now? My gods, he should’ve had the smirk patented!

“Of course.”

Then she waves a dismissive hand, and he just about balks. Nobody dismisses a Malfoy, it’s a crime punishable by the patented Malfoy glare!

“Go on, cast it. Let me see. I’ve always wondered what your Patronus will look like. Better wish for it not to be a ferret.”

Draco scowls and Granger laughs, and for a horrified moment, he thinks Granger, despite her abhorrent excuse for hair, is kind of, sort of, a tad, just a little bit...pretty. And then of course he catches his train of thought, halts all stations, and declares a holiday, no exemptions, stop that steam, there is no voyage today.

Granger may be capable of looking pretty, but the compliment won’t ever be coming from him. Unless, of course, she trades Harry Potter for it.

“It’s going to be a _dragon_ , Granger.”

“Sure.” She crosses her arms and by the expression that rests on her face, Draco’s certain he shouldn’t bait her further lest he be physically incapacitated.

Draco spends the afternoon trying to conjure a stupid Patronus that just doesn’t want to be conjured. Really, it’s offensive, like, how hard can it be? He can so ask anyone to _come_ and they will and a stupid misty animal refuses to simply materialize! It’s insane! What, isn’t knowing just how sexy he is a good enough memory?

How about looking at the mirror this morning and noting that, nope, the war hasn’t diminished the sheen of his hair, and yep, he’s still too sinfully tempting?

He waves his wand.

A silvery whisp. Then nothing.

“This is ridiculous! Granger, are you sure you’re not teaching it wrong?”

“Malfoy, are you sure you’re not thinking of stupid memories?”

“I don’t have stupid memories!”

“Then concentrate and try again! This isn’t first year magic, you know!”

“Ugh, Granger, I hate you!”

“Doesn’t change the fact that _you_ still can’t cast a Patronus.”

More heated words about each of their shortcomings are exchanged, a few highly creative insults, the occasional expletive, a lesson in humility, a lesson in hair care, a debate on the existence of Nargles, which isn’t exactly a debate since they both think Nargles only exist in Luna Land of Loony — or Triple-L, as he so wittily names it — and _is Krum still well-favoured?_ — _That isn’t quit the same as “still favoured well”_ — _Touché_.

Five hours, three minutes, one second, fifty-seven instances of name calling, twenty-four cases of threats of bodily harm, and five jelly-legs later, Bee-hive skips out of the room with new knowledge on hair taming and a smirk that announces how pleased she is with herself, and Draco flounces out of the same classroom with a satisfied smile and a new ability to cast a Patronus conjured from the memory of Harry You-Make-My-Knees-Go-Weak Potter’s tongue stuck down his throat. True, it’s only been a one-out-of-five-chances kind of thing, but he’s positive he’ll be churning out full-bodied Patronuses by the end of the week.

Draco thinks that has got to be one of the most successful lessons he has ever had, and by this time next millennium, he’ll be best friends with Hermi-what’s-her-name Granger.

Or not.

* * *

 

“I will round up a protest! I will raze this school! I will write to every publishing company how this school has no sense of propriety at all! I will destroy Hogwarts, reave its grandeur! My God, _polish trophies_ for detention! Fie! So utterly proletarian! Woe is I! Woe is I who have never touched a rag in my whole grand existence! Potter, I assign you the task of doing my part of the detention!”

_Seriously_ , can’t Hogwarts ever have detention that’s not so pedestrian? Like, maybe, assigning him to point his finger and laugh at the faces of other students? Trophy polishing! They really need to dish out something… _unique_ once in a while. Oh, he’s so going to ruin his manicure...

“You’re off your rocker, Malfoy. You’ve gone off the deep end and there’s no hope of getting you back.”

“But, Potter! Can’t you see? _You’re_ thehero! _Deus ex machina!_ I am the— well, not a damsel in distress, but in distress all the same. You slay the dragon; I wait in the tower to be rescued. You polish trophies; I keep my manicure divine. How can you not understand that simple concept?”

Sex-On-Legs can’t possibly be this thick. Is it like a trade-off or something? Be the epitome of heaven on earth in exchange for a few brain cells, sex appeal for asininity? That is _so_ not on. Besides, he’s good-looking, he’s sexy, he’s every person’s dream — except maybe Potter’s, but that can be rectified — _and_ he’s still got the best brains in school, second only to Granger, but he’s not thinking about that, so why can’t Potter be like him, too?

“Be a trooper, Malfoy. The world isn’t all diamonds and this will wean you from your toff-y tendencies.”

A trooper? Seriously, is the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Torment-Everyone’s-Fantasy kidding? In what year, in all his formative years in Hogwarts, has he ever given the slight indication that he’s inclined to act beneath his station in life? None, because it isn’t going to happen — it’s too proletarian that it hurts his sensibilities and wonderfully pedicured toes! This is pleb. No questions asked. Pleb, like privies, like troopers sharing privies and conducting unruly business in said privies, and he’s not really so fond of communal water closets at the moment — or any other moment — because they’re filthy and God knows what he can contract from there…commonality perhaps — and oh my lord, can poverty be contracted? — and Malfoys, as a general rule, don’t do common, absolutely not, and God, someone please inform Aunt Durilda of that!

If being a trooper means something else, and that something else lies in the general direction of gratifying what’s inside his dragonhide trousers, then it’s okay.

“I will not be gentrified!” Unless properly and very thoroughly convinced. In a manner that’s up to his standards. Much like the one he laid down in the Forbidden Forest. Minus the creepy crawlies, colly matter, and the like, of course.

“It’s just polishing trophies.”

He won’t cry. Swear to God, he won’t cry. Malfoys don’t cry. “But it’s _menial_ …” Those are so not tears blurring his vision. And when he rubs the back of his hand over his eyes, it’s only because there’s something in his eyes that’s making them teary. Really. Honest. Scout’s honour, even if he doesn’t exactly know what that means, but he’s heard some Muggle-born say that that’s a sign of, well, honour. Or whatever.

“Merlin, Malfoy, are you crying?”

“Malfoys do not cry!” At least not in public. Nor in the company of another. _Especially_ not in the company of another.

Potter seems torn between laughing or feeling panicked, and, swear to God, if the Boy-Who-Said-Nighty-Night-To-Volde-effing-mort laughs at him, he’s so going to wish he’d said nighty night to Draco instead. And really, he’s going to tell him off, he’s going to open his mouth and say something to defend his dignity, but Potter just has to choose that moment to wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him close. Like oh-my-God-tuck-Draco-against-Potter’s-frame close. The kind that steals his breath away even if there’s no snogging going on. The kind that just _fits_. The kind where Potter rests a cheek on his elegant Malfoy shoulder and lets air brush tantalizingly across the skin of his neck when Potter speaks.

“Really, Malfoy, I don’t know what to do with you.”

He could so crack a pun from that if he weren’t so distracted.

Okay, Potter’s breath blowing on his skin just about shoots another ripple of desire down his spine, and it’s not even intentional. God, does the poster boy for all that’s soft and furry and doe-eyed and innately good have more hidden talents that can be exploited? Because, you know, he’s really all about exploiting. He’s like so Draco Exploitation-Is-My-Middle-Name Malfoy, he might as well change his monogram to DEM, except DM is still so succinctly sexy, so no thanks. But he digresses.

“Take heart, trooper. We’re mates, and two men can’t possibly lose a war against metal polish. How hard can this be?”

Can’t they be “mates” in the _other_ meaning of the term? And what are they, _five_? War his foot, and he’s really going to insult Potter if he isn’t being embraced by him right now. And, well, it feels kind of funny that Potter’s talking to him like how he probably would to another Gryffindor mate. _Not_ that he wants to be a Gryffindor, heaven forbid, but it’s like being included in on a secret. Sort of. The one that little boys indulge in, and place ridiculous rules, and install a misunderstood pecking order, and tell each other, “Thir, yeth, thir, right away, thir!”

Oh God, he’s getting really emasculated that he’s seriously in danger of becoming an honorary — _shudder, shudder_ — Gryffindor. Effing Harry fucking Potter! He has to get away. And fast.

When Potter releases him, however, the sense of being suddenly bereft almost sends him off-balance. Just almost because he’s eternally graceful that it transcends into the metaphysical plane. _Not_ that he took ballet lessons as a kid because he didn’t.

Unintentionally-Sexy Potter shuffles over to the trophy cabinet, retrieves two cups, then sits on the floor near where a vat of polish is placed. And then he looks at Draco expectantly, and Draco stares back. Honestly, does Potter expect him to sit on the floor? But that’s such a positively grimy surface! He’ll get a disease! It’s the floor, it’s supposed to be walked on _with_ footwear, not sat on! It’s dirty, it’s _icky_ , it’s plebeian! But then if he does sit there, he’ll be sitting so very close to Potter, and Potter still really feels nice and comfy and warm, and he smells absolutely delicious to boot.

Sighing the sigh of the unwilling hero, he deposits himself beside Potter sulkily because yes, he looks terribly pounce-worthy when he’s acting sulky. The whole Slytherin House will vouch for that, Ravenclaw will attest to it, Hufflepuff will, well, they don’t really matter, and Gryffindor so knows it, at least the girls do. And hopefully Potter, too, the inconsiderate bastard.

He nestles a little bit closer — a little reward for himself for deigning to sit on the floor, and he’s so not going to think of whatever microorganism has bemired the surface.

“By the strength of my peerage alone, I should not be here.”

“Of course, your Arseness.”

“Off with your head, knave.” He barely has time to react when Potter quite unceremoniously — _the git_ — throws a rag at him, but, thank the stars for his Seeker reflexes or who knows where that bloody rag would’ve landed on his person. _Ew._

“There’s nothing to this, really. You won’t even ruin your manicure.”

Now that he’s reminded of his manicure, his lovely, lovely manicure, he feels like crying again. And maybe he should so Potter’ll feel guilty and, perhaps, hug him again.

“I think associating with you is the greatest mistake I’ve ever made.” Aside from that time in third year when he forgot to lock his door and his father caught him dancing in front of the mirror wearing only his y-fronts, but nobody needs to know that.

“Because of me, you’ll be getting _real_ friends,” Potter asserts.

Okay, so what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? If that unstoppable force happens to bear the name Harry James Potter, then bloody hell, the immovable object may just find itself giving in to the request to try and make friends like a good little boy. _Dammit._ Well, a good, little, _fit_ boy. Totally.

“Harry Potter, this is a suicide mission you’re sending me on. I wish to be properly compensated. I think I’ll be claiming that virginity stub after all.”

“We’re not talking about my state of affairs, and that includes bedroom matters.” Selfish git. _Honestly_ , the world will be a better place if people just surrender their virginity stubs to Draco. Well... _beautiful_ people, that is.

“I need something for luck!”

“The potion we brewed last time.”

“Cheapskate. How about a hug?” A _real_ hug. Not a boy’s hug like the previous one, although that was pretty good, too, if he were being honest. Bodily contact is really still bodily contact after all.

“What?”

“A kiss then.”

“If hugging is out of the question, then it’s a corollary that snogging is out, too.”

“Fine, I’ll settle for a good-luck shag.”

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

“I’m okay with that. So S&M?”

“Malfoy.”

“Potter,” he copies the tone of the Boy-Who-Makes-Everybody-Crazy-With-Want-And-Yes-That-Includes-The-Portrait-Of-Snape-Even-If-It’s-Ew.

Draco shifts from his position, places his arms around Potter’s neck in a loose hug, drapes a leg over Potter’s, and ends up straddling his wank fantasy, and, _oh God_ , this is just too fucking erotic, and all they’d be needing now are chocolate syrup and more chocolate syrup and less clothing and more skin and they’ll be enacting the most arousing fantasy he’s ever had.

Well…sort of. He kind of needs Potter to respond for that to happen, but the bloody Gryff is too bloody straight, he gives the term a whole new bloody meaning.

“I knew it. I knew if I befriended you you’d make me befriend your friends, too, and that’s really asking a lot you know. I’ve already had to deal with fashion disasters in Slytherin and now you’re making me deal with slovens from Gryffindor! That’s so unfair! That’s like asking me to stop being drop-dead gorgeous, which we both know isn’t possible, and faulting me for it even if being born like a god is by no means any fault of mine! Come on, me, Draco Malfoy? I’m _so_ good-looking, I can drive a nun to sin with no problems at all. It’s criminal to not be me! Are you purposely trying to make me cry, Harry Potter? I don’t like crying, it makes my eyes go puffy and red, and that is, ugh, so unattractive! _Honestly!_ The pinkish redness just doesn’t go with the shade of grey of my eyes. Crying is like the ultimate fashion faux pas, don’t you agree?”

“You’re prattling—”

“I do no such thing!”

“—again. And must you straddle me?”

“I’ve said it once, but I’ll say it again for your benef— no, _education_ : You, saviour of the Wizarding World and trapped kittens, are a complete idiot when it comes to the dramatics. _This_ is like the acme of drama: fraternizing with the enemy!”

“We’re not enemies.”

He sighs the sigh of the weary. “You’re hopeless, Potter. You’re a truly hopeless case, and my heart bleeds for you.” And he hugs the hopeless boy who isn’t so hopeless when it comes to the looks department, and, _God_ , Harry Tantalizing-You-Since-1980 Potter smells amazingly good, like soap and subtle cinnamon from the dinner pudding, spicy, very heavenly male, and just a little like polish, but oh my stars, he smells divine.

The guy is in terrible need of a hug, the poor devil, he’s so ignorant! And Draco’s being charitable like this. Didn’t they say that friends hug each other for comfort? He’s only being friendly and sympathetic.

Except he isn’t really because he couldn’t care less if Potter’s such a clueless boy — _ugh_ , he’s going to have to work on this plebeian, and it’s a real blessing Harry Erection-Inducing Potter bathed in the tub of sex appeal when the gods opened it for human use. Draco’s only really pursuing personal gratification.

He means that with Do-Gooder Potter, this is almost like foreplay, and so what if Potter has no clue about what he’s thinking? He doesn’t need to know what Draco’s taking anyway. Malfoys are masters in subterfuge, it’s like the eleventh commandment or something: Overt is so last season. Well…there’s Aunt Durilda and her false teeth and flashy table dancing, but she’s summarily being forgotten.

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

“That would be good, too.”

And then he laughs, and Draco is horridly affronted. _Seriously!_ In situations like this, the one being hit on by a Malfoy should be moaning for more, not laughing! _Ugh_ , why must he be in the company of such a philistine? Although a well-favoured philistine at that. But before he can protest, Sex-In-Gryffindor’s-Clothing unceremoniously pushes him onto the floor, and since he has his arms around Potter’s neck, Golden Boy falls down with him.

Potter hovers above Draco, his fringe, longer than it should be, brushing momentarily against Draco’s face. There’s this curious look in his eyes, and his hand is on the side of Draco’s neck, and _oh my fucking God_ , Potter’s thumb’s absently caressing the hollow of his throat and the effing innocent gesture is shooting arrows of desire straight to the tightest part of his trousers, and for the first time in his life, he curses dragonhide, tight-fitting pants because it’s doing an awfully, tremendously good job of cutting the circulation off a very important extremity.

Does the bloody idiot know what he’s doing to him? _Dammit_ , he bets Potter does, and is secretly a sadistic freaking Gryffindor. _Tsk_ , Gryffindors. All that shiny goodness is really just a cover for uncharted kinkiness.

“Hey, Malfoy.”

“Yeah?” He wants to say something more, he really does, but he’s too aware of certain body parts touching another’s certain body parts, and his tongue has completely abandoned the ability to work. Well, except if Potter kisses him, then the tongue’s probably working just absolutely fine. But as the case is now, the only thing he can think of is that Potter should commence with the debauchery, or _God help him_ , he’d castrate the effing Golden Boy.

Maybe.

Not.

“You’ve been great with Hermione.”

Way to kill a bloody erection! _God,_ it’s almost like being doused in ice-cold water, which shouldn’t be the case because Harry fucking Potter is hotness personified, he puts the roaring fire in the hearth to shame, and _dammit_ , since when does he do cliché? _Ugh_ , Potter’s making him do such unthinkable things, it’s absolutely criminal! He should have this sex God gaoled!

But of course he’d be there in the same cell, and maybe they can proceed to do more… _productive_ stuff.

He ignores what Golden Boy is saying. “Potter, it is highly imperative that you commence ravishing me because that’s usually what happens when you pin a Malfoy to the floor. _Especially_ to the floor because you need to compensate me for getting me on my back on something horrendously dirty.”

The force of Potter’s laughter brings him crashing down on Draco, and _oh my dear lord_ , that just about brings them to perfect alignment with each other: chest to chest, abdomen to abdomen, hips to fucking hips. But really, it’s going to be _a lot_ more fun if the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Torture-Draco-Malfoy stops laughing! _This is no laughing matter!_

“Merlin, Malfoy, you’re too precious!” _Duh_ , that’s like a given.

“Merlin, Potter, you’re too infuriating!” And sinfully tempting. Tasty, too, if that kiss from last time is something to go by.

“You don’t think that.” And then he gives that cheeky smile.

Where the hell did he learn to do that?

Harry Goody-Two-Shoes Potter doesn’t do cheeky! It’s absurd! Someone as pure-hearted as him is not permitted to do anything remotely connected to being devious. Well, except for doing the naughty with him, of course, because God knows he’s all for that. However, since he’s a god himself, Potter worshipping him in ways that can make his toes curl isn’t necessarily devious — in fact, it’s kind of holy, in an unholy erotic sort of way. Besides, he’s a religion all to himself and proselytising Potter is what heavenly beings like him are dutifully expected to do.

“So, did you kiss her, too? Did she pass?”

“Kiss wh— Granger? Gods, no! Potter, you freak of nature, why would I kiss Granger? Ew, no! No offence to you or her or to other bunny-eared goodies in your Gryffindor heart.” What the hell, why are they still talking about Granger? Shouldn’t they be talking about worshipping Draco? That has _got_ to be more interesting!

Potter’s laughing again, and the vibrations are so easily infiltrating Draco’s own clothing like rampant fucking sperms racing towards the egg, except he’s not an egg, of course not, he’s like the spermest of all sperms.

Does this blighter have no bloody idea that pinning him to the floor is about the most erotic thing ever? _God_ , Potter’s really going to kill him one of these days, and he’s going to let the fucking bastard: He’d die a very happy man, because, _goddammit_ , if this constant friction isn’t bloody delicious, then nothing ever is. What a way to go! Only…not. Oh, he can _just_ see the headlines: God-like Malfoy Heir Killed By Inadvertent Grinding; Suspect: Boy-Who-Lived-To-Grind. And with the universe’s wicked sense of humour in anything concerning its precious Harry Potter, that may just become a reality. _Grr._

That is _so_ going to follow him to his very grave.

“Isn’t that what one’s supposed to do to be friends with you?” Master-Of-Accidental-Frottage Potter says, still amused.

And by the gods, can he not move anymore? If Potter continues to wriggle above him, although seemingly ignorant of what he’s doing, they’re going to have a very aroused Draco in their hands, and wouldn’t that _just_ wipe that amused grin off Potter’s lips!

He tries to count backwards to gain control of his reactions because he doesn’t want yet to tell Potter to move away. Come on, it’s not every day that he gets pinned down by the sexiest man to ever hold a wand, pun not necessarily unintended.

“In the essence of keeping things interesting, I changed my policy: I made her lick my boots.”

The Boy-Who’s-Too-Sexable shakes his head and promptly collapses on top of him, acting as though he’s one big plushie, which he isn’t, thank you very much, unless of course it’s a sex plushie, then yes, Draco probably is. “I bet she made _you_ lick her boots. And your hair smells like sweets, did you know?”

That casual tone, that insouciant observation may just about be the most thrilling thing he has ever heard come out of Potter’s mouth, and oh my lord, if Potter doesn’t get up soon, they’re going to be smelling like sweat and sex instead of innocent sweets, and even if Potter’s too straight for his liking, Draco’s not even going to be sorry about it. Not that he has plans to ever actually be sorry for anything, but it’s the principle of the thing.

When Will-Make-You-Come-With-Just-A-Look Potter does ease the friction and rolls to the side, Draco almost groans at the loss of contact. _Come on_ , just because he knocked on the light side’s door a little too late doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve a proper — well, not _too_ proper — tussle! He and Sex-On-Legs are due for a proper tussle — God, they’ve been having seven years’ worth of foreplay, and he’s practically giving Potter carte blanche to do with his person as he pleases, can’t Golden Boy get a fucking clue? All that hate and antagonism are really just another channel for sexual frustration, everyone knows that.

“Before you can start another spiel about boots, and commoners, and the occasional insult about my intelligence, let me just say one thing: Thanks. Thanks for making an effort.”

If talking about Granger kills an erection, then thanking him with just words just about exterminates every horny cell in his body. Since when does the Harry Shaggable Potter thank Draco I’m-Too-Sexy-For-My-Shirt Malfoy? And _excuse me_ , he so did not make an effort to befriend Bee-Hive. If he remembers correctly, it was the swot who begged for his friendship, if begging actually meant threatening to turn him into a ferret. But nobody needs to know that.

“Potter, thanking me is not enough. That’s like a measly knut in my impressive Gringotts vault! Please, don’t insult me.”

“So what do you want in exchange?”

By now, he’s resigned himself to repeating things because that’s all he seems to be doing when in the company of these innocent Gryffs. _Honestly._ “Raping you.”

Potter’s laughter echoes against the stone walls as he sits up and resumes working on the trophies. “I told you, that’s only after we’re better acquaintances.”

Goddammit, if this is still not “better acquaintances,” he’d find himself bumping shoulders; exchanging silly Christmas gifts; lounging on threadbare, mumsy, outdated sofas; and painting the whole fucking town Gryffindor red with the entire Gryffindor brood before he could cop a feel. _Not_ that he particularly wants to cop a feel because, by gods, that is still too unforgivably pleb. Well fine, except, perhaps, when it comes to Harry I’m-Too-Sexy-For-Draco’s-Dragonhide-Trousers Potter. Exception to every rule. It happens.

Draco sits up. “That’s not going to be rape anymore.” He can’t believe he lay on the floor! _Ugh!_ And now he’s back to using the rag and trying to figure out how to keep his manicure heavenly while working.

“Exactly.”

“Consensual then?”

It’s a sign that the world has tipped off its axis when Potter starts to confuse him. It’s not a nice feeling. Kind of like a bad hangover — _not_ that he’s familiar with the feeling of having a hangover as he’s never been hungover. It’s not his thing. Hangovers are so last season, so not on, and that’s not because it’s part of the family prescript...although it _is_ part of the family prescript: Malfoys are never hungover after ingesting copious amount of alcohol; they just feel ill-affected afterwards. Well…there’s Aunt Durilda and the incident during the Christmas hols of ‘96, but her membership in the family tree is quite debatable so she doesn’t quite count at the moment.

“No. It means by then you’ll realize you don’t rape your friends.”

“What a Gryffindor idea! And by that I meant _boring_. And we’re never going to be pals, Potter. That will only happen _after_ I’ve plundered your tower, pun very much intended.” Oh yes.

Potter chuckles, rubbing the surface of a trophy for _Most Interesting Professor: Lockheart_. And then Golden Boy laughs harder upon reading the inscription. Draco reckons Hogwarts is the only institution that honours a plonker more colourful than a bloody peacock, and he almost rolls his eyes at the irony: institution all right — for the mentally unstable. Gods in tutus, no wonder Slytherins themselves are turning into tossers faster than he can say “queer!” — the school housing them is bat-shit insane, and not even in the ha-ha funny kind of way.

“You’re a piece of work, Malfoy.”

_Duh!_ Of course! He is so a work of art! What, does bloody Potter need, like, those artsy gubbins to scrutinize his quality? No need! He’s like carved from marble and breathed life by the gods of hedonism and animal magnetism: _Let there be temptation, and there was Draco Malfoy_ , of course, followed shortly by Harry Potter.

_Let there be sin, and there was Harry Potter in all his bloody glory._ Fucking selfish git. He already has Quidditich, does he really have to take sin, too? Well, okay, Draco doesn’t really much care because Potter’s his anyway — Yours is what you desire, and yours even before acquisition, goes Malfoy precept number one. Now if only Potter knows…

“I am.”

“It’s an insult.”

“Not if it’s directed at me. Hello, any bulb under that lampshade? Seriously, Potter, know your art. You’re already a philistine, having been sorted into Gryffindor, so don’t make yourself worse.”

_Ugh_ , he just has to spill polish on his trousers. Bloody Gryffindors should be quarantined! They’re clumsiness is totally catching! Next thing he knows he’d be in the extensive care unit over at St. Mungo’s. _Wonder what’s the thread count of their sheets…?_

“Merlin, Malfoy, leather pants to school? You are a ponce, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Just because I have excellent taste that befits my name doesn’t mean I’m a ponce, you unapologetically unabashed heathen. And it’s dragonhide, not—”

“Yes, because that’s not leather at all.”

Okay, the poster boy for incredible feats of goodness is officially a cheeky monkey. A fit cheeky monkey. But since Potter doesn’t seem to be behaving like that towards his friends, maybe…it’s his way of flirting with Draco...

_Oh my stars_ , that’s hot! In a…weird sort of way. Potter’s really weird anyway, so he reckons it’s just right…in a weird kind of manner. Okay, fine, Potter’s one fit bloke and all but he’s on the weird side of _amazing-ness_ , kind of like the hottest weirdo. Ha! And the effing weirdo dared to tell him to be _normal_ when Potter himself is weird…in that fit kind of way. _Dammit_ , he’s giving himself a headache.

“Dragonhide happens to be in season, knave. Take pointers from me.” Except, perhaps, Potter really shouldn’t because Potter in leather pants will really nail the coffin for him, which isn’t exactly the same as _nailing him_.

Fucking gods in lacy pink tutus, associating with Gryffindors is really dangerous to his health! There are just too many things that can kill him, and all of them not swift enough. Sweet.

“Repeat after me: dragonhide is in season and it makes Draco Malfoy look absolutely fit.” ...and his arse absolutely delectable.

Of course, he only really owns one pair because, dragonhide or not, in season or not, leather trousers are too overrated, he reckons. Just last night, he heard his dormmates talking about leather pants and himself, and he could swear he heard them ennoble him as leatherpants!Draco. Seriously. Draco Malfoy and leather in one sentence do cause monumental orgasms to even those with limited imagination, but it also tends to be too banal even for him, and if there is anything that Draco Malfoy isn’t, it’s banal.

And boring.

And tasteless. And homely. And common. And pleb, among other things. Or, well, among _many_ other things.

“Didn’t we have a deal that you’ll be normal for a week?”

“ _Granger_ taught me. Last time the _Daily Prophet_ checked, you’re name’s still Potter. And you apparently have a worrisome sock fetish. Seriously, what is _that_ about?”

“ _I_ got Hermione to teach you. That has got to count for something. Half a week then.” Pregnant silence. “What are you looking at me for? I _don’t_ have a sock fetish for Merlin’s sake!”

“Relax, lover. It’s okay. So, tell me, is it a new kink?”

_“Malfoy!”_

“Easy, scarface, don’t go spare on me. I’m not judging. To each his own, I say. I’m just asking.” Now he reallyhas to pay even more attention to his socks. Who would’ve thought that the Boy-Who-Lived gets off on socks?

“Are you particular with colours? Partial to any? Black perhaps?” Because black pairs are the only ones he has, and really, why would he have other colours? Aside from dark brown and dark grey, that is. And, well, white for his white wing tips, which he alone can carry; sadly, not everyone is made for white.

“I wished for a normal year of school before we leave, for a change. No real enemies, healthy rivalry, and then I get you. If this is some kind of karma, then the universe has a fucking screwed sense of humour.”

Okay, Potter has really gone too far. Draco has a sensitive soul and doesn’t take kindly to insults, unless those insults are followed by mind-blowing sex because then it’s kind of like role-playing, and that’s just really hot. But _nooo_! Potter’s too much of an idiot to even follow his words up with a kiss, a proper French, so Draco sniffs and sulks, listlessly polishing the trophy and decides not to talk to Potter unless Potter talks to him first. _Hmph_ , _let’s see how long he lasts._

As it turns out, Potter _can_ last long without talking to Draco. Fucking Potter! Seriously, just because Potter’s a walking orgasm doesn’t mean he has the right to be comfortable with Draco not talking to him! That is so not on!

“I barely escaped by the skin of my teeth, I’ll have you know,” he finally relents.

“What?” Potter looks up, surprised, as if he’s forgotten he’s with someone. _Ugh!_

“That lesson with Granger. I barely escaped by the skin of my pearly whites.”

“I’m sure you fought gallantly and bravely. My, you’re almost a Gryffindor!”

Draco nearly chokes. “I most certainly am not!”

“If you polish as much as you whinge, we’d be done by now.”

“If you kiss me instead of polishing these trophies, we’d have more fun.”

“If you kiss the ground I walk on, _I_ would have more fun.”

“How about I kiss you instead?”

“How about...not?”

“I hate you.”

“You know what they say? That the more you hate, the more you love? So, Malfoy, just how in love are you with me?”

“Who’s this ‘they’ you’re talking about?”

“You’re not denying it! I knew all that antagonism back then must have stemmed from something!”

Draco splutters, which is something he can’t forgive himself for because Malfoys supposedly don’t splutter, and really, must he go on disclaiming Aunt Durilda every time she breaks from her Malfoy genetic make-up? She’s practically a stranger! “I’m not in love with you!”

“You just want to have sex with me?”

“ _Duh!_ Who better to introduce you to the world of carnal pleasures than me?” he wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat because Potter’s suddenly serious tone takes him by surprise. Potter’s been in a teasing mood the whole day, and the change is a little alarming, like waking up in a silent house and knowing that he’s missed his hair appointment.

“What is it, Malfoy?” Potter asks seriously, turning so he’s now looking directly at Draco. “I’ve always chalked it up to serious messing around, but that’s not the case, is it? You like me. You seriously like me.”

“Of course not!” he denies hotly because, shit, even if it’s true, this serious Potter is more than Draco can handle. And what if Potter gets offended when he does learn the truth? What if he doesn’t want to be around Draco anymore? No, no! Hotness like Potter belongs beside another hotness like Draco!

“You have _got_ to stop thinking so highly of yourself, Potter. Of course I’m not madly in love with you! Much less want kinky monkey sex with you in the shower, against the wall, fast and furious. Of course not! Seriously, just because—” and there’s really no point in continuing because Potter has just leaned in and sealed his mouth over Draco’s.

Like.

Oh my God.

And the heat is becoming intense because Potter’s a really good kisser, sucking and nipping and licking and making Draco moan. Making Draco’s bones melt, turn to mush, because every swipe of Potter’s tongue against his own, every slide of Potter’s tongue on his palate, is like a barrage of sensory experience that comes second to none. And then Potter retreats, slowly, teasingly, making sure that Draco will follow, and Draco does follow, unwilling to stop kissing, unwilling to part with something he has so wanted to have repeated since that night along the Slytherin corridor.

The next thing Draco knows, he’s straddling Potter once again, and all his fantasies come back to him, making his toes curl inside his leather boots, which just arrived yesterday and are the latest in Parisian wizarding high-fashion, thus costing over a two hundred fifty galleons, five sickles, and a knut that, frankly, almost drove Malfoy, Sr. spare since half of their wealth have been sequestered until war reparation agreements push through and _Draco, my son, three closet-full of shoes, are you sure you’re not trying to compensate for something?_

But he really shouldn’t be thinking of his father because that’s the easiest way to kill the erection that Potter’s kissing is deftly nurturing.

Not that there’s really a chance of losing his erection because Potter now has his hands clamped on Draco’s hips and his are thumbs caressing the skin where Draco’s shirt has ridden up, successfully making every hair on his pale, gorgeous body stand on end.

Potter moves to Draco’s neck, nibbling and probably intending to leave love bites, angry red and possessive, and Draco finds himself rocking against the Boy-Who-Lived, desperate to get more pressure where it counts. And damn these dragonhide trousers because they’re so constricting and he’s so aching hard and, fuck, why won’t Potter just divest him of these silly leather pants and put his hands to better use. Fuck!

“Harry...”

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Potter breathes out, blowing over the patch of skin he was nibbling, making Draco shiver the good kind of shiver. Draco jerks, grinding against Potter’s lap.

“I want—” a groan breaks off his sentence when Potter slips his hands inside Draco’s shirt and brushes his nipples.

“Yes, Malfoy?”

Draco takes Potter’s head between his hands and plunders the Gryffindor’s mouth, rocking against him harder. “I want you. Merlin, I want you, Harry.”

Potter licks Draco’s lower lip, pulling away when Draco moves in for another kiss. “You know what I want?” he asks, raking blunt nails over pale skin. “I want to peel all this leather off you, inch by inch, licking every patch of skin it reveals.”

“Yes, yes, oh God, yes.”

“I want you writhing beneath me. Begging for release. Begging me to fuck you until you can’t walk straight. I want you to feel me for weeks, compare me to all your future fucks and find out that nothing will ever come close to this.”

Oh God, heavenly Merlin, all the saints and angels and every dead Malfoy, he’s so going to burst, come untouched, experience a world-shattering orgasm just by listening to Potter talk dirty and fill his head with every little dirty act Potter wants to do to him.

“I’ll fuck you slow and sure, until you’re single-mindedly asking for more, and then we’ll do it _fast and furious_ , just like you wanted. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

By the time he gets out a shuddery yes, Potter has already shifted their positions, looming over him, hand ghosting over the bulge in Draco’s pants. “Draco...”

“Harry...”

“Draco.”

“Mm...”

“Malfoy!”

Draco jerks at the harsh tone because unless they’re into S&M, there really should be no place for that kind of tone. When he opens his eyes, he’s expecting Potter to be holding a riding crop, but Potter’s only looking at him weirdly and now he’s thinking that something is seriously wrong.

When one is about to make love to Draco Malfoy, one doesn’t gaze upon his lovely person weirdly. It’s just not done.

Except...there’s no flushed Potter. There’s no lap he’s straddling. No lips he’s kissing. And, quite possibly, no promise of being nailed like today’s their last day on earth.

“Er...Potter?”

“Nightmare? You were moaning in your sleep.”

And that’s when Draco notices that he’s positioned horizontally in reference to the ceiling he’s currently staring at...and quite perpendicular to Potter when he returns his gaze to the Gryffindor. What burns is that he’s not even perpendicular in that deliciously life-affirming way.

Wait.

In his sleep?

Oh God. He fell asleep during their detention! And not only that, but he was dreaming of finally getting it on with The-Boy-Everyone-Wanks-Over! And said boy is only a foot away, asking if he was having a nightmare! Which he probably was having if nightmares consisted of being dirty-talked to death.

Draco scrabbles to get up, unmindful of finesse because any second now, Potter’s going to notice the very noticeable bulge in his dragonhide trousers. Except that’s all he can do — scrabble — because whatever it is he’s lying on keeps sliding against the floor and preventing him from properly getting up.

Potter gently pushes him at the shoulder. “Chill, Malfoy. No one’s out to get you.”

And that’s the sad thing really because he so wants Harry Fucking-Innocent-About-His-Own-Sexual-Appeal Potter to _get him_.

He grasps Potter’s naked forearm defiantly, and since he’s always been very good at putting two and two together, he’s understood that naked forearm plus very obvious white shirt means no robe on Potter because, for some reason, it’s under Draco, a sheet to keep him from lying down on the dirty floor.

Draco gulps, alarmingly close to melting at Potter’s indomitable thoughtfulness.

“You’re looking flushed. Stop struggling, Merlin, Malfoy, you’re acting like I’ll attack you any second!”

At that, Draco calms down. It wouldn’t do to allow himself to get ruffled because Malfoys only get ruffled when about to face a horrible death from the Dark Lord — or from a hippogriff, or Potter’s Patronus, the fiendfyre, but who’s counting? — and the Dark Lord has gone poof and really, the only death threat he’d prolly ever receive is from his cute Ginny Weasley if he doesn’t stop harassing Potter.

Or not. Because the silly bint seems amused at his efforts. Bitch. He’d laugh at her so hard if he one day succeeds at luring Potter away from her clutches, no matter how lovely she is.

And even then she’d probably just shake her head at him and snap her fingers and Draco would again be Harry-less.

_Le sigh._ Truly, one can’t have everything.

Draco takes a deep breath and glares at Potter, which is a little ineffectual because Sex-On-Legs is only smiling at him wryly. “I’m calm, Potter, thanks for your concern.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “Oh come off it. You owe me, you git, falling asleep in detention. I’ve polished four trophies for you! Oh, Malfoy, you’ll never be out of debt from me.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll let you have your way with me if that’ll get me out of debt,” Draco tries to sound putout when, in truth, he’s screaming like an excited little girl inside at the prospect of that happening.

This time, Potter laughs out loud and Draco deflates. “You call me incorrigible when _I_ should be the one calling you that.” He stands up and brushes off his trousers. “C’mon. Up. I’d like to get some sleep before the sun rises.”

When Draco takes Potter’s hand, a delicious thrill courses through his veins and he curses all levels of hell and tiers of heaven for giving him Potter only in his fucking dream.

Potter yawns, stretching his arms, and Draco enjoys the strip of skin getting exposed as Potter’s untucked shirt rides up, feeling his fingers itching to trace the arrow of hair that disappears into the waistband of Potter’s pants. And then he winces because although the imagery is atrociously delicious, the strain on his cock because of the damnable leather trousers is definitely not.

“Come on, I’ll walk you to the snake pit,” Orgasm-Personified chuckles at his own joke.

And Draco really would’ve swooned, accepted right away, but there’s the problem of his too tight trousers and too obvious erection and how Potter would probably go weird on him if told the real reason. Besides, it’s not as if he could walk okay with a raging hard-on that Potter isn’t very inclined to relieve him of. Stupid, selfish git.

“You go ahead. I’m still meeting someone.”

Potter raises his eyebrows because the poor sod, sexy as hell as he is, isn’t capable of raising just one. “Indeed?”

Draco sniffs. Of course not. As if he had time to invite anyone, excited as he was to be alone with Potter. “Of course. Nothing better to relieve the stress of detention than a midnight tryst, don’t you think?”

At that, the Golden Boy snorts. “What stress? You slept on the job!”

“What _job_? Slaving away? You should feel honoured you worked for me! Now I’ll be taking my goodnight kiss and you can toddle off.”

Potter bursts out laughing, unwittingly bruising Draco’s ego, but he does cradle Draco’s face in his too warm hands and presses a soft kiss on a sharp cheekbone. Draco’s breath catches in his throat at the tender gesture, but the giddy feeling that’s working its way up his system turns cold when Potter chuckles again and throws a parting line: “Jesus, Malfoy, you’re like a child.”

“I am not a child! Take that back! I want my old Harry Potter! I hate you! Where’s the original stuttering git who knows better than to approach me? Where? Where?”

But Potter’s already shutting the dungeon door, leaving echoes if his laughter ringing in Draco’s delicate ears.

Draco huffs and stomps his ridiculously expensive boots. Stupid Potter. A child? A _child_? Do children get as randy as him? _Noo!_ Grr. He picks up the robe that Potter has left behind, intent on flinging it at the door, but immediately changes his mind. Well. Finders keepers and all that shit. At least it smells like Potter. And when he slips it on, he barely prevents himself from cackling like mad at the thought of Zabini seeing him in a Gryffindor robe. If it isn’t so pleb, he’d be rolling on the floor laughing.

Of course, the thought of Zabini immediately kills his erection. Fool-proof Zabini.

It doesn’t take him long to reach his common room once his legs have stopped shaking from the memory of his dream, and he’s not surprised to find Zabini still awake, probably getting ready to indulge in his favourite Potter-in-a-tutu fantasy and wank silly by the fire. The disgusting ponce.

“Surely you have more class than that?” he says imperiously from his spot by the door. “Seriously, Zabini, you have got to control this kink!”

“Fuck off, Dr— _Why_ are you wearing a Gryffindor robe?”

At this, Draco smirks. Oh this is so easy! “What do you think? Oh, Blaise, he smells awfully divine! Like soap and subtle cinnamon. A little citrusy, too, and spicy from dinner.”

Zabini looks at him suspiciously. “Who?”

“Potter, of course. Who else do you think this robe belongs to?” And Draco knows he’s so going to have a restful sleep when he hears Zabini spluttering as he ascends the stairs, leaving the other Slytherin mourning for what he’d never have.

_~finite_

Oh, oh! Draco can’t believe it. He’s penned a sequel to his earlier work! Nearly sixteen thousand words! All about his orgasmically beautiful self! And Potter, too, of course, the beautiful boy that he is. _Oh my stars_ , this is like Christmas in the middle of the year! And he got Potter to kiss him again! Although more chastely than before, but still. A kiss is a kiss is a kiss, and he just needs to work a little harder before he’ll have Harry Owning-Draco’s-Arse-since-1991 Potter in the palm of his hands. Or, better yet, in his pants, but really, going slow might have its rewards. _Le sigh. Well, lest I be accused of prattling again — which I don’t do, excuse me, that’s so pleb — I, heavenly delicious Draco Malfoy, dipped in a vat of sexual magnetism when I was born, bid you farewell. Of course, if properly convinced, I’m not opposed to sharing my indulgent experiences once more._

-The End...maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Reference/s:  
> Aunt Durilda – is a tribute to the wonderfully crazy character Uncle Ethelfride in _Draco Malfoy, The Amazing Bouncing…Rat?_ by Maya
> 
> Citation/s:  
> “Thank you. My hair is very amused.” – Monica Geller on _F.R.I.E.N.D.S., Season 2 Episode 1: The One With Ross’ New Girlfriend_


End file.
